Some stories demand to be told, not for sympathy, but for raw, unvarnished understanding. My brother Jonathan's story is one of those - a messy, complicated narrative of love, struggle, and the devastating impact of societal silence. When I lost him to suicide 14 years ago, I discovered how deeply we misunderstand mental health, grief, and the intricate ways trauma weaves through a life.
This is Mary's story.
Jonathan
Let me be clear - our story isn't neat or tidy. It's complicated, just like Jonathan was. He was 11 months older than me, and our early lives were anything but straightforward. We were in foster care as very small children, until Jonathan was three and a half and put into a children’s home. On that same day, he got attacked by a dog and had to go and live with our grandmother for some time. When we eventually were returned to our father's home, we didn't find comfort - we found a new stepmother who was violent. She used to beat us and punish us quite a lot, and I think that affected both of us. Our childhood was more about survival than stability.
Jonathan was gay during a time when that meant constant battle. The Royal Navy, where his sexuality was illegal, and boarding schools where he never quite fit in, were more like war zones of identity than places of learning or service. He had this brilliant sense of humour - sharp, cutting, intelligent - but he was always on the outside. Always looking in, never quite belonging.
I can still see him so clearly - intelligent, handsome, complex. He was the kind of person who could light up a room, but who also carried this profound loneliness that few people could truly see. His life was a series of temporary arrangements - he never owned property, always renting, always moving, never setting down roots.
In Reading, he found what he considered his most authentic self - partying, exploring recreational drugs, living openly as a gay man during the challenging era of the HIV and AIDS epidemic. When people talk about suicide, they often want a simple narrative. They want to understand why. But life - and death - aren't that straightforward. I didn't know about his previous suicide attempts. He wasn't someone who used suicide as emotional leverage or threatened it during arguments.
He had a relationship at that point. I don’t think Jonathan was very good at relationships. I think he probably had some complex PTSD which affected his relationship with people, as friends as well as romantic relationships. I know that he could be violent on occasions, and he could be harsh and difficult with his words. That relationship eventually broke down, which I think was the final catalyst.
When he died on that July morning 14 years ago, it was a shock that defied everything I thought I knew about my strong, resilient brother. The day is etched in my memory like a film I can't stop replaying. I was in Norfolk with my young children when friends discovered him. He'd left this cryptic Facebook post - something along the lines of ‘this better work, or there will be a smacked bottom’ - and had taken a cocktail of GHB, vodka, and prescription antidepressants. His suicide note was heartbreaking - essentially saying he couldn't bear to start all over again. That he had tried to love people, but it just wasn't meant for him.
Support – or the lack thereof
Grief, I learnt, is like filling up a car with petrol - nobody teaches you how to do it properly. It's not linear, it's not predictable. The first week was a blur of smoking, drinking, and raw, unfiltered emotion. I was shocked by how quickly support evaporates. Initially, everyone wants details, wants to help. But as time passes, you're left alone with your pain. People don't know how to talk about suicide, so they say nothing - which is often more painful than saying the wrong thing. It's like when you're a child and someone dies, and you don't know what to say, so you say nothing at all. I'd rather someone say the wrong thing than say nothing. At least then, they've tried.
My workplace offered minimal support. Three days off and one sympathy card. That was it. The lack of formal support was staggering. I eventually found a local suicide bereavement group, run by an older gentleman who had his own experiences with suicidal thoughts. It was a lifeline, but it shouldn't have been so hard to find.
Comparing Jonathan's death to losing my father to cancer showed me the different dimensions of grief. With my father, we had time for goodbyes. With Jonathan, the suddenness was devastating. But both losses taught me a crucial lesson: tell people you love them while they're here. You never know when the last opportunity will come.
Mental health support remains a joke - and I say that as someone working in healthcare. Overburdened, understaffed, impossible to access when you need it most. In a crisis, you can't wait two weeks for an appointment. People need immediate help, and often the only resources are nonprofit organisations that are barely visible.
No Right Way to Grieve
My advice? There's no right way to grieve. It's intensely personal. Some memories will hit you unexpectedly, years later. What matters is being kind to yourself and allowing yourself to feel whatever comes. I’ve always likened grief to that of being in a tunnel - people are there to help you at the start, everybody wants to know what’s going on, but the further you go, the fewer hands are reaching out. I suspect it's the same with any grief, that after a certain time people get bored of you being sad. It’s like, ‘he died two months ago’, ‘he died two years ago’…’he died ten years ago’ – why are you still sad? Although you might not think about the pain as much anymore, the pain is still very much there, and it's still very raw. But you tend to think about happier things as time goes by, rather than the sad things.
If I could change anything, it would be our societal approach to discussing mental health and suicide. We need to teach young people that it's okay to seek help, that feelings of hopelessness are temporary. We need to equip communities with tools to support each other, to recognise signs of struggle, to create safe spaces for conversation.
Jonathan's story isn't just about his death. It's about a beautiful, complex human being who deserved more support, more understanding, and more love. It's about breaking the silence that surrounds mental health and suicide.
To anyone struggling: just hold on. Life will surprise you. Things will change. And to those supporting someone in pain: be present. Give them time. Let them know they're not alone.
In remembering Jonathan, I choose to celebrate his intelligence, his humour, his humanity - not just the pain of his loss. His memory is a call to compassion, to understanding, and to breaking the silence that can cost lives.
Some stories demand to be told. This is one of them.
(The story about Jonathan’s life and death is also told from his ex-partner Uday's perspective, in the article ‘Love, loss, and healing: My journey through Jonathan's suicide’)
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